


so terribly final

by nehemiah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Physical Disability, post s08e03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:25:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nehemiah/pseuds/nehemiah
Summary: life is full of possibilities.





	so terribly final

For a moment the madness of the battle slows down, time seems to be moving no faster than thick honey dripping down the side of a comb. Snowflakes crawl sluggishly through the air. The living and dead almost pause in their dance. Another wave of dead men came, he saw them, they charged, they bore Brienne down under their weight, she was carried hard into a wall, her mouth’s open but there doesn’t seem to be any sound, if Jaime can just get there, if he can just get his feet moving, but they’re slowed like everything else –

Then time returns, the world takes a breath, and every dead thing abruptly slumps down unmoving. Jaime’s wits take a moment to recover. Here and there others are standing, living, breathing, the Payne boy is there, on his knees and throwing up, but alive, Jaime slaps him on the shoulder as he passes, _what happened_ , someone says, _is it over_ , but Jaime’s stumbling toward Brienne, with desperate strength he hauls the topmost wight off her, she wriggles her shoulders free of the rest. Her eyes meet his, and she reaches up a hand to him, her strong grip reassuring and familiar.

 _Come on, wench, on your feet_ , he grunts, but quickly senses that something’s amiss. Brienne blinks, squeezes his hand, pulls, unsqueezes, looks puzzled, tries again. _I can’t…. Jaime_ , she croaks, _I can’t move, what’s happening, I can’t feel my legs-_

*

He’s crossing the inner yard of Winterfell, stamping on the dead, knocking aside the living, boiling rage making his strides long, he’s going take the Stark boy and throw him out of his chair, is this his idea of justice, or balance, or irony, he’s going to wring the Stark boy’s neck, the smug little bastard won’t see that coming –

Then he sees Tyrion and the Stark girl emerge blinking from the crypts, and he thinks, perversely, of the last time he and his brother were here together, the conversation they’d had then, and the anger drains out of him, and he collapses against the nearest wall. Look at me, so many dead and I’m almost shedding tears over one stupid wench who went and got herself crippled, and he laughs, and then he weeps.

Later he’s outside Brienne’s quarters and the Stark girl is waiting there, wringing her hands inside her gown sleeves. _They’ve laid her down, got her armour off, but she just isn’t speaking, or moving, she’s just lying there, i don't understand, perhaps Maester Tarly can do something_ – Jaime pushes past her and goes in.

The wench is a dead weight, lying, staring at the wall with dull motionless eyes.

 _Brienne_ , he tries. Nothing.

As he fumbles for words, an acrid smell makes his nose wrinkle. _Hm_ , he says, and heads back out into the castle. It doesn’t take long to find a servant, use whatever shaky authority he has here to rustle up hot water and fresh sheets, and he returns. He sets to work, she's unmoving the whole time, he has to put his shoulder into her back to turn her, but she's in there, he knows, because of the way her face reddens.

 _You did this for me once, wench, remember?_ he says, to fill the silence. _I didn't worry too much about my dignity then. You gave me some words of counsel, too. What was it you said? Live, and fight, and take revenge?_

_Fight?_

The voice is so small and distant it takes him a moment to realise it’s Brienne speaking.

_How can I fight now? And... revenge? Revenge on who?_

He can't answer those questions. He stares at the back of her head and she stares at the opposite wall.

 _Live, then_ , is all he can say.

They stay unspeaking for a while, it might be minutes or hours, then the fat young maester comes bustling in, Sansa at his heels, full of apologies about taking so long. He’s lugging a dusty book with him, he explains it was written by some old archmaester who made a study of the body. There are fibres under the skin, he rattles on, like muscles, but thinner, and they carry feeling from the skin to the heart, and they can be severed, but sometimes they aren’t severed but only jarred, and sometimes the feeling can come back – Jaime tunes out after a while, but he looks over the boy’s shoulder, seeing dense spidery handwriting and bewildering diagrams flash by as the pages turn. _Here we are_ , he says. _This is the part._

They pull aside the sheets, exposing Brienne’s thick freckled legs, and the maester draws out a long iron needle. He drives the point in here, here, and here, and Brienne just looks lost. Then he prods a point just above her heel, and she sucks in a short breath. The lad’s face splits in a grin, Brienne blinks as she realises what’s just happened, and she shares a look with Jaime that makes his heart beat harder.

*

They make a wheeled chair for her, a larger and cruder version of Bran’s. Sansa takes her around the most, chattering away, effortless in her grace and courtesies, telling stories about her home and childhood. Jaime can’t match that, he struggles to find things to talk about, but he takes her out every day all the same, thinking that even his dull company must be better than staring at four walls. He struggles with the chair. One-handed, he can’t steer the thing, it keeps veering off the paths. Two handed is no better, the golden hand can’t grip properly, and pushing Brienne’s weight makes it chafe against the flesh of his stump. After a few days it’s red and raw, and Jaime tries to hide his discomfort, but Brienne sees it all the same, and every time they’re out and she sees him suppress a grimace she says something like _we can stop here, yes, let’s stop, and rest a while._

They get into the habit of eating together in the Great Hall. He wheels her up to the table, she cuts meat and breaks bread for him. Between us we almost make a whole, he thinks. People stare, and whisper, and stare more.

Jaime wheels her back to her quarters. She waves away his help and hauls herself onto her bed, while he fusses with the placing of candles and the water jug. She strips off her jacket but keeps her other clothes on. He takes it and folds it neatly, and looking over his shoulder, she catches sight of Oathkeeper, hanging in its place behind the door.

 _I was a poor knight_ , she says abruptly. _One battle._

 ** _The_** _battle_ , he says shortly. He walks back over and kneels by her bedside. _And you’re still a knight. No, listen to me. What did you swear? To be brave and just and protect the innocent. You can do all of those things without swinging a sword._

 _It’s more than that_ , she says _. Swinging a sword is all I was good at. What’s left of me now that’s been taken away, you don’t unders-_ then she glances at his right arm and she stops and looks down at her lap, blushing.

He can't hold back a laugh.

Then he extends a hand tentatively, pulls her head up, leans forward, puts his lips on hers. She doesn’t retreat. He comes in a second time and her mouth is open and he feels the warm pressure of her tongue on his. They break apart and she looks wide-eyed and he can’t hold her gaze.

 _Shall I call on you in the morning_? he asks, oddly formal.

 _That would please me_ , is all she can say.

*

Bran has talked to Tyrion, Tyrion has talked to the smith boy, he’s talked to Samwell. The four of them pore over the book again and produce something they think will help – a pair of curious-looking metal and leather frames that fit over her legs. She lets herself be strapped into them, a dubious expression on her face, and a few minutes later tries to stand. She has to keep one hand against the wall and totters uncertainly, Jaime hovering close if he’s needed. He thinks it's gratifying to be looking up at her again. _Now what_ , she says. _Try_ , says Samwell. She does. The muscles of her legs twitch a little. Nothing else. _This is foolishness_ , she says. Then she loses her balance, topples, half into a bedside table and half into Jaime, bearing them both the ground. She heaves herself up into a sitting position, face burning bright red with embarrassment.

 _Foolishness_ , she repeats.

 _Keep trying_ , says Jaime.

A week passes, they’re in the young maester’s rooms, and she’s trying again. She can shuffle a leg forward, barely. Every step feels like more of an effort than the whole of the battle. She doesn’t want to cry out. But she grunts like a sow, sweats until her clothes are soaked through, bites her tongue until it bleeds. Four steps. She lowers herself into the chair and lets Jaime wheel her away, head high, back straight, until they’re out of sight of everyone else. Then she slumps in her seat, tearful and exhausted, trembling like a windblown leaf.

*

 _The armies are leaving_ , she says as she lifts herself into bed one evening. _You don’t have to stay._

 _You promised me ten steps tomorrow_ , he says simply.

She tries again. _If you wanted to go home, or go with your brother, or – or – anything else… you don’t have to stay._

Jaime sighs and runs a hand through his hair. _To be truthful_ , he says _, I’ve had a bellyful of worrying about the throne. Fools will be still fighting and dying over that ugly piece of iron when I’m a bent old man with a beard down to my knees. I’m where I want to be._

 _You don’t have to stay_ , she repeats.

 _We don’t have to stay,_ he corrects her, reaching up to take her hand.

She looks at their joined hands, then at nothing in particular, then says _Jaime, I looked in Samwell’s book. Archmaester Edgerran says that I won’t be able to – if we wanted to, i-if **you** wanted to, he doesn’t think we can -_

It takes him a moment to understand the meaning behind her stumbling words, then his lips part in a cold little smile _. I’m not letting some long dead maester tell me what we can and can’t do, wench. That’s the one thing maesters are famous for not doing, what the hells would they know about it?_

He leans in for a kiss, then realises he wants more. He pulls his body onto the bed until he’s straddling her, she puts her arms around him, he’d almost forgotten how strong she was, he feels the warmth through her clothes, her fingers are unlacing his shirt, frantically, clumsily, their tongues in and out of each other’s mouths, then she stops and pushes him back.

 _Wait, wait_ , she says. _We have time_ , she says. _Let’s just rest tonight._ She finds a smile. _Ten steps tomorrow._

He rolls off her, but doesn’t leave, and eventually drifts off to sleep. Brienne doesn’t bother shifting the covers over them. Winterfell isn’t cold, especially not with him curled into her side.

*

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed in her cabin, drawing deep breaths. _You could just go in the chair,_ he says. _No_ , she says _, I want to make an impression. It’s important. Father will be watching. Everyone will be watching. It’s a short walk, just down a gangplank._ She has the frames on under her gown, and a sturdy oak stick in each hand.

She emerges into the light. Between the spring sunshine and the reflections dancing off the blue water, she’s almost blinded. The deck seems wider than she remembered. Then the gangplank. Then a jetty that looks about as long as the distance between Tarth and Winterfell. Then a crowd of smallfolk, all come out to see Lord Selwyn’s heir returned, then a distant grey-bearded figure in blue and red who can only be-

 _Let’s go_ , she says. _I’ll be right beside you_ , he says.

Less than a third of the way across, she stops, breathing heavily. Jaime sees the twitching of her eyelid, the giveaway sign that she’s struggling. She covers her uncertainty with a carefully essayed wave, the smallfolk cheer. She turns to Jaime. _This isn’t working_ , she says softly. _Take that,_ she says, nodding at the stick in her left hand. He takes it, he tucks it under his arm, and then she drapes one long arm over his shoulders. She adjusts her stance, he grunts under the sudden weight, _we’ll have to move together,_ she says softly. _I’m used to that,_ he replies. Is he referring to the way they used to dance with swords in hand, or the way they’ve been spending their time in their cabin these last few weeks? The latter, most likely, knowing him as she does.

With a stick in one arm, and the other around Jaime, she continues in trembling, laboured steps down toward the waiting crowd. He feels her strength, and she feels his strength, and suddenly they both know she’s going to make the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> honestly done with show canon now, but here's a last gasp for you.
> 
> please lmk if any of the subject matter is handled insensitively.


End file.
